Before I Forget: A Memoir

By Herbert Rosenblum

Going boldly forward . . .

This book is a memoir written and edited by Herbert Rosenblum, reflecting the several dimensions of his personal, professional, and communal involvements. His young years on New York Citys Lower East Side, his educational and professional training and growth, and his decades of religious and academic service in New York, Massachusetts, and Pennsylvania are recounted in considerable detail. The book is divided into several sectionsinspirational anecdotes, extended interviews, and autobiographical chaptersintertwined to convey a portrait of an extended career of religious, academic, and communal activities. His personal and professional experiences have been deeply enriched by his familial and career involvements and have given this narrative a grippingly humanistic character. His world has changed much during his blessedly long lifetime, and his life patterns have been greatly influenced by the historical experiences that have taken place in our shared local, national, and international environments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543468212

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Copyright © 2017 by Herbert Rosenblum.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2017918093

ISBN:                Hardcover                978-1-5434-6823-6

                          Softcover                   978-1-5434-6822-9

                           eBook                       978-1-5434-6821-2

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Rev. date: 12/04/2017

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CONTENTS

Abbreviations Used

Introduction

Anecdotes

Autobiographicals

The Herb Rosenblum/Philip Warburg Interviews

Publications

ABBREVIATIONS USED

AJC – American Jewish Committee

ALBJCC – Arlington-Lexington-Bedford Jewish Community Center

Book Project #767155

BU – Boston University

HC – Hebrew College

Herbert Rosenblum

HH – High Holidays

HU – Hebrew University

HUC-JIR – Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of Religion

JTS – Jewish Theological Seminary

LBIJCC – Long Beach Island Jewish Community Center

LES – Lower East Side

MTJ – Mesivta Tiferes Jerusalem

OU – Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations

RIETS – Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary

RJJ – Rabbi Jacob Joseph School

RRC – Reconstructionist Rabbinical College

TA – Talmudical Academy of YU

TAU – Tel Aviv University

UAHC – Union of American Hebrew Congregations

UJA – United Jewish Appeal

URJ – Union for Reform Judaism

USY – United Synagogue Youth

YU – Yeshiva University

ZY – Zikhron Yaakov

INTRODUCTION

9/25/17

This personal memoir has had several historical starts, spanning the past 15 years or so. The most recent and most promising one, came about due to the urging of Phil Warburg, our talented and beloved son-in-law. In the midst of the frenzy of one of his own admirable writing projects, he not only pressed me to resume this stalled project, but actually volunteered to kick-start the creative aspects by interviewing me by long distance phone with an active recording device, and then arranging to have the transcribing done by some semi-pro students. His motivation? An 85th birthday present (2014), that could then evolve into a biographical volume that he could present to his children and (hopefully) grandchildren as first-hand information on the makings of their Rosenblum grandfather. A gift that I certainly could not refuse, especially since I had already made some sputtering starts in this direction in earlier years.

The most recent of these (previous) efforts was the project initiated by my grandniece, Ilana Kogen Webster, Judah and Lisa Kogen’s middle daughter, on a trip to the US several years ago, when she had just finished her PhD in London, and was on a lecture trip at American colleges. By appointment, she and Simon came to Philly for a visit, and while he was playing tourist with Sheila, Ilana took out her recording device and started asking me the predictable historical questions – about my parents, their parents, my young years in NY, etc. I don’t know if she ever transcribed those interviews, which lasted several hours, or if they are gathering dust somewhere, but they certainly piqued my interest at the time.

There had also been other sporadic conversations of this type between me and the children, grandchildren and close relatives over the years. I always found these interviews interesting, and they sometimes resulted in a class essay in one of the youngsters’ schools. I enjoyed the experiences, especially since I knew that I was not then the oracular/custodian of the many details of the family’s history – until I actually was, increasingly so, in recent years. I had always regarded my sister Dena Kogen as the ultimate repository of the familial evolution. She was 13 months older than me, but those were crucial months – because she remembered our Palestinian grandparents, who left the US in 1931 to return to Jerusalem; Dena was 3 and I was 2. I have no active memory of what they looked like and how we all related to each other, whereas she did. And, in general, I regarded her as the authority on family history, and would generally refer questions on such subjects to her. Then, in about 2010, she gradually started to slip, and her memories and interests began to fade. I therefore had to increasingly recognize that I had suddenly become the primary source of familial information. Our younger sister, Miriam Edelman, knows a great deal, but she was born 9 years after me, so I have emerged, by default, as the senior consultant on Rosenblum historical family affairs.

Several other factors are relevant in these regards. Firstly, I am a historian by training, inclination and temperament. Secondly, I have been a fairly constant photographer of family developments over the years. Thirdly, Sheila and I have spent a considerable amount of quality time in Israel, and have established ongoing relationships with many of our relatives who live there. Fourthly, I decided to interview my parents on tape back in the 1970’s and 80’s, and asked them to comment on some of the salient historical experiences that needed to be remembered by succeeding generations. Fifthly, I am profoundly aware of the fact that some similar process needs to be implemented (sooner than later) to record the very different, but equally fascinating, saga of my beloved Sheila’s Mirsky/Friedman clan, and to place it alongside this now emerging portrait of the Rosenblum/Cohen narrative.

Please bear in mind – by inclination, I am a cultural omnivore. When interesting things happen all around me, I find it hard to resist getting involved in them – books, conferences, politics, travel, etc. Very time-consuming, and the major reason for my not having made much more progress on this project over the recent years. The 85th birthday gift has now germinated for over 3 years. For all of these factors, it is fitting to thank Phil Warburg, for providing the critical spark that has gotten this project off the ground. It should be no surprise to anyone who knows Phil – he himself is the product of a family tradition, in which memoirs were nurtured and passed along from generation to generation. We are all in his debt, and hope to see this enterprise move ever forward (slowly, perhaps) to its literary completion.

Some methodological points, from the very outset. 1) My personal autobiographical text – arranged historically, mostly runs parallel to the Phil Warburg interviews. 2) The actual transcripts of Phil’s interviews, somewhat edited by him and myself, required occasional corrections due to the transcribers’ unfamiliarity with specialized terminologies. 3) Thematic digressions on subjects that I considered important to my bio are occasionally repeated in both sections. 4) Interspersed anecdotage (pun intended), a dimension that Phil felt would enliven the narrative are additionally included in a separate, randomly selected, section. 5) I will seek to insert occasional photos of personal, familial and historical significance. I will need to solicit some expert advice on how to do this properly. 6) Occasional use will be made of the lovely (parallel) study done by (cousin) Jerry Mann (about ten years ago), Bnai Yonah, which surveys the family tree of the Mann family. His great grandmother, Shayna Gittel Levine (Mann) was my grandmother’s younger sister. Lots of connections. 7) I will, of course, need to run all of this material by my younger sister Miriam, who has maintained ongoing relationships with some of the relatives that I had lamentably lost contact with. 8) The title I had given myself for this project years ago, somewhat jokingly, Before I Forget, may no longer be merely humorous; the process has begun, and we are therefore in a race against time. 9) At the request of the publisher, some of the more colorful passages in the original manuscript have had to be toned down, to avoid possible litigations. 10) There will be inevitable duplications between the several sections of this multi-faced documentary – interviews, anecdotes and autobiographicals – and I have chosen not to overly streamline the different parts of the narrative. My advance apologies. 11) A final note – transliterations. I have some strong feelings about transliterating Hebrew/Yiddish/English, but …I have resolved not to impose my opinions on other principals, whether they are people, organizations or institutions. For example – my mother’s childhood home community, Shaarey Hessed (in Jerusalem). That’s how I would spell it, but the locals don’t. I let them speak for themselves.

In undertaking a project of this scope, I was well aware of the pitfalls that awaited me. I have lived a blessed life enmeshed in the full gamut of issues that have faced modern humankind and modernizing Jewry as well. I have not been neutral on most of the bread and butter issues that have confronted socially and culturally active community participants. I have, however, largely tried to keep partisanship out of these pages, not because of any lack of commitment, but because this is essentially a biographical memoir, and not a political tractate.

I am not oblivious to the fact that the full spectrum of social and religious activism in my extended familial and social entourage is quite broad, and is embraced by people near and dear to me with strong commitments and fervor. I love them all deeply, even though I frequently do not share some aspects of their powerful commitments. The purpose of this memoir is essentially to paint a portrait of Herbert Rosenblum, with a broad brush, and periodic glances backward and forward.

The life experiences that I have described in these pages have, of course, related to the full gamut of historical developments of the past hundred years or so. We have witnessed the great heights that humanity is capable of reaching, as well as the profound depths of tragic evil that we earthlings are capable of perpetrating. It is patently clear to all of us that the destiny of the inhabitants of this wonderful planet has not as yet been decided; the process continues, and we can only hope and work for the strengthening of our better natures.

The biggest single lesson I have learned in composing this memoir is that humility is to be strongly sought for, however elusive it may seem. It has not been a natural gift for me, but I have learned its lessons by reviewing my life’s experience in the broad glare of unembellished reality. There are over 7 billion people on earth, and each one has his/her own living environment to relate to. The narrative portrayed in these pages is uniquely mine, but cannot change the undeniable fact that there are the countless billions of other narratives out there, each with their own special blends of fulfillments and frustrations. May we each of us seek the maximal blessings of life and manage to avoid the ever-present pitfalls that surround us. Going boldly forward.

This introduction cannot be complete without a loving expression of thanks to my dearly beloved Sheila, who has watched this unfolding process with varying degrees of humor and apprehension for over 62 blessed years together (and counting). Mere words cannot describe the loving support, encouragement and enrichment that she has unstintingly provided to me and the members of our growing family during this wondrous and blessed life-span. We are all in her infinite debt, and I am delighted to dedicate this memoir to her. Thanks for everything, my dear eishet hayil (woman of valor).

Herbert Rosenblum, Philadelphia, 2017/5778

ANECDOTES

THE ROOSEVELT TORAH – 1938, 1980

I remember quite clearly an episode that took place in my neighborhood synagogue on East Broadway (the Young Israel of Manhattan) at a Shabbat service sometime in 1938. The synagogue president announced to the congregation that the National Council of Young Israel had presented a Torah in gratitude to President Roosevelt during the previous week. He paused, expecting applause, but got something else – What? To a non-Jew? His response – Don’t worry, we fixed it. At age 9, I wondered what he meant.

Fast forward 42 years. In 1980, I revisited the Hyde Park Roosevelt Library on a research trip, and saw the Torah in question in a display case along with other presidential gifts. The Torah mantle was suitably inscribed – Presented to President Roosevelt by the National Council of Young Israel in 1938. I had seen it there before, on previous research visits, so it only stirred my memory buds slightly. However, I was saying Kaddish at the time for my recently deceased mother, so I was going each morning to the local synagogue in Poughkeepsie, and I had become acquainted with the rabbi, Irwin Zimet.

After the service the next morning, I mentioned seeing the Torah at the Library Museum, and told him about the presentation announcement 42 years earlier, and that I had always wondered at the comment Don’t worry, we fixed it. His eyes lit up, and he said Aha! That solves one of my own problems. They always call upon me to come to Hyde Park and turn the Torah to an appropriate panel for some special public event. And one year, I turned it and turned it, and couldn’t find the passage I was looking for, even though I knew exactly where it should be. They must have removed a full panel in 1938, thus making the Torah ineligible for ritual use, and felt entitled to present it to a non-Jew. Indeed, they had fixed it. Mystery solved.

* * * * *

ONE MORE SONG –

One of the most touching pieces of literature that I remember reading in my teenage years was the poem by Hayim Nahman Bialik entitled Aharei Moti (After my death). In it the poet pleads rhetorically that after his death people should read this poem of his, in which he declaims that no matter that he was widely acclaimed and highly successful, it should be emphasized that he really always had one more song to write, and that he would now forever be unable to write it.

This poem came to mind for me whenever I was involved in a funeral for a famous person, who had achieved much in his/her personal career and was now being strikingly honored in well-deserved eulogies. The honoree would clearly love to say exactly what Bialik said – I really had one more song to write, and would have loved to live on and express another great thought. Truth is, I have used this poem on several occasions at funerals over the years, and not just for the great and famous, but also for common folks, who actually also felt that they could have climbed to new horizons if given the opportunity to survive and create.

* * * * *

DR. YANSHOOF – 1998

In August 1998, in between retirement jobs, I undertook a year-long responsibility to fill in for a Rabbi in Florida who was going off on a sabbatical. The responsibilities were comprehensive – he was a very talented and energetic rabbi, and I felt quite comfortable in assuming his various roles – teaching, sermonizing, pastoral duties, community leadership. Except for one function – he had arranged, for many years, to meet on Friday mornings with close to 100 pre-schoolers for a Shabbat-oriented hour-long program, and he had been very successful in this activity. So, I did feel the need to solicit advice from respected educators in Philadelphia as to how to prepare for this activity, which I had no past experience in performing. One of our educator friends suggested – use puppets. The idea intrigued me.

By the sheerest coincidence, at the very time we were preparing to head down to Florida, our Tamar’s family visited with us on a family vacation. One morning, I walked into our living room, and saw our two granddaughters, Tali and Maya (then aged 6 and 4), actively communicating with each other via a little teddy bear, with great animation. And I said aha! I then began to scout around for a logical puppet to use for this purpose, and found a winner – a little stuffed owl. I named it Dr. Yanshoof (Hebrew for owl), and ascribed to it some of the popular attributes associated with owls – mostly wisdom and skills.

When we arrived in Florida, and my duties began, I introduced Dr Yanshoof to 100 gleeful toddlers every Friday morning – as someone who knows all the answers to questions about Shabbat (and everything else), and with whom I would whisper in advance about the program we were undertaking. The program would always begin – do you know who this is? And a hundred voices would answer – Dr Yanshoof!. And do you know who gave him to me? Your granddaughter Maya. And do you know where she lives? In Israel. And then we would proceed to talk about aspects of Shabbat. Any questions? Children would ask about Kiddush, lighting candles, Shabbat services…and I would consult with Dr Yanshoof and give them his responses. They loved it; their teachers loved it; the temple staff loved it (they piped the dialogue into the office every Friday morning, and were fascinated by it). Dr Yanshoof still occupies an honored place on my bookshelves at home, remembered with great affection. And whenever I meet the educator who recommended it to me, I thank her profusely, and she blushes with pride.

* * * * *

THE LANGE ESTATE - 2001

In the spring of 1996, I was spending some time in Netanya, and visited periodically in Zikhron Yaakov, where Tamar, Phil and their family were living, and in Jerusalem, where Varda and David were living. One Friday morning, Tamar took me on a friendly tour of downtown Zikhron, and showed me some of the signal tourist spots, most of which Sheila and I had seen before over the years. But, one of the spots captivated me – the Lange estate. It was the largest tract in downtown ZY that was undeveloped, and had become overgrown with wild vegetation and unmaintained buildings. It turned out I knew more about this estate than Tamar did, and I shared the details with her.

Professor Israel Friedlander had become a NYC legend in the 1910s as a Bible professor at JTS and an outstanding leader in the cultural life of Manhattan Jewry. He was married to Lillian, a daughter of Herbert Bentwich, a distinguished leader of British Jewry, whose eleven children all became active leaders in the Jewish world – in the US, Palestine and Britain. Israel Friedlander had been commissioned in 1919 by the new American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee to travel to the Ukraine and provide relief funds to the suffering Jewish populations caught in the post WWI civil war between the Russian Red and White Armies, the new Polish army, and the Ukrainian Cossacks. On this dangerous mission, he and his colleague, a Reform rabbi, were robbed and killed.

His widow, Lillian, after a brief period of mourning in Ft Lee, NJ, decided to move to Palestine and join her sister, who was married to Mr Michael Lange, and lived quite palatially on the Lange estate in downtown Zikhron. Misfortune to the family continued, and both Langes died within several years, leaving Lillian as the mistress of the estate. She was musically inclined, and initiated a music school and cultural celebrations on the estate. She herself died in the 1940s and the estate started to deteriorate. All this I explained to Tamar, and she then filled me in with the contemporary realities. The reason that the estate had gone to seed was that custody had been transferred to the Yad Hanadiv (the Rothschild Foundation) after Lillian’s death, and it was refusing to agree to proposals by the town fathers for creative use of the valuable estate.

From that brief Friday visit, I headed right off to Jerusalem to spend Shabbat with Varda and David. The next day, they had guests for Shabbat lunch and I knew some of the people from previous experiences. During lunch I shared Tamar’s Zikhron story with some of the people, and ended up by castigating the Rothschild Foundation for standing in the way of a productive solution of the Lange estate situation. They listened politely, and when I was finished, one of those at the table, Ari Weiss, who had actually been a student of mine in Boston, said just a minute… I’m the president of the Rothschild Foundation, and the real story is quite different. And he proceeded to share with us his organization’s repeated requests to the town fathers of ZY to come up with proposals for the civic usage of the estate, but that they were unable to agree on a concrete proposal to submit to the foundation.

When I got back to Netanya that night, I called Tamar and shared with her the table talk at Varda’s, and she was duly shocked. She vowed to get back to the town fathers of ZY and offer her architectural services to them to resolve the impasse. That was 21 years ago. Every few years, I ask Tamar – what’s happening with the Lange estate? The answer has been that the town fathers remain hung up between the old residents (largely farmers and land-owners) and the newer residents (largely academics and high tech), and have not been able to devise mutually agreeable plans. So the Rothschild Foundation is still frustratedly sitting on it. And the Lange estate is still an under-utilized eyesore in the heart of one of Israel’s most upscale towns.

* * * * *

THE JEROS BROTHERS – 1946

In 1946, while still living with my parents on East Broadway, my closely knit group of neighborhood friends got two new additions – Joe and Phil Jeros. They were both very nice and sociable, spoke with heavy European accents, and were employed in a new family business that was rapidly expanding. And they had a remarkable story to tell. When the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939 from the west, the Red Army invaded Poland from the east, and they partitioned the country. Two years later, when the Germans invaded Russia, they overran the sections of southeastern Poland where the Jaroslavetz family was living. They had already heard of the murderous activities of the Nazis of the two years past, and resolved to move to the Russian interior, which they did. The mother, father and their seven sons. The Nazis moved fast, and the Jeros family moved even faster, and never stopped.

The family spent brief periods in the Urals, in Tashkent, and moved continually eastward through Siberia. They paused briefly in several places, buying here, selling there, learning tradecrafts and various skills, and ended up quite affluently in Vladivostok. From there, when the war ended, they crossed into American-occupied Japan, and soon enough were able to move off to the USA. They settled in my neighborhood, the lower east side of Manhattan, as so many refugees had done before, and decided to establish a business with one of the skills they had picked up during their Siberian travels – manufacturing fishing tackle – the Jeros Tackle Company. Within a very short time, their company established strong connections with sporting goods companies, including Sears and Macys, and they were launched.

Joe and Phil were the youngest of the seven sons. They worked hard all week, but on Shabbat they socialized with us locals, and they fascinated us with their stories of movement through Europe and Asia. They learned English very quickly, and their company prospered mightily. By the late 1940s, the Jeros Tackle Company was the second largest fishing tackle company in the USA. They Americanized, but remained scrupulously observant throughout their travels. When we teenagers shared our plans to visit Canada, they recoiled in horror – we never want, they said, to cross an American border again. It was difficult enough to get into this country; we never want to run that risk again. As a matter of fact, it was never clear which one was Joe and which one was Phil, because their entry papers had been switched so many times.

I haven’t seen them in many decades, but they represented something fundamentally wonderful about the world image of the USA. Amidst the horrors that befell European Jewry during WWII, here was a miraculous story about a mother, father and seven sons, who not only survived as a family, but kept moving doggedly, with unflagging determination, to reach the only place of refuge, in which they could manage to survive as Jews, but prosper mightily as well. Truly inspiring.

* * * * *

MORDECAI KAPLAN

Of all the professors I encountered at the Jewish Theological Seminary during the 1950s, the one that I responded to most deeply was Mordecai Kaplan. He was not the most eloquent; that would have been Robert Gordis. He was not the most brilliant; that would have been Saul Lieberman. He was not the most engaging; that would have been Shalom Spiegel. Others had their own areas of academic or literary charisma. But the one that had the most cogent and gripping understanding of the modern American Jewish existential challenges was, to my life-long commitment, Mordecai Kaplan.

Kaplan embodied, to this day, the need for American Jews to reexamine the foundations for their ability to creatively survive in a world that offers unprecedented new opportunities for growth as well as limitless temptations to assimilate into a welcoming society. He himself was a product of the old school – his father was a very traditional rabbi; his youthful education was quite Orthodox; his first positions were in Orthodox synagogues. But he saw the emerging realities of the changing conditions of Jewish life in the opening up of American society to the transitioning masses of Jewish immigrants at the turn of the 20th century.

He was attracted by the modernism introduced by Solomon Schechter’s 1902 arrival in the U.S. He was deeply influenced by the 1897 founding of political and cultural Zionism. He became fully involved in the founding of the N.Y. Kehillah Jewish Community in 1909. He became a stalwart supporter of the Jewish Endeavor Society, alongside of Israel Friedlander, which sought to establish modern-type synagogues for young adults, beginning in 1912. He was appointed by Schechter in 1909 to head up the new Teachers Institute of the JTSA, and he partnered strongly with Dr Samson Benderly and Rabbi Judah Magnes, starting in 1910, to systematize and strengthen communal Jewish education in NYC

In all of these areas, Kaplan became the voice of combining the best of Jewish traditionalism with the intellectual new frontiers of his day. It was a difficult balance to strike, but he did not flinch from the effort. By the 1920s, he had helped to establish the United Synagogue of America, The Jewish Renascence Society, the Jewish Center of New York, and the Society for the Advancement of Judaism. By the 1930s, he formally launched the Reconstructionist movement, and oversaw the publication of its pioneering journal - the Reconstructionist magazine.

Quite a record. And in the process, he convinced a great many emerging Jewish professionals (myself included), that his evolved formula for producing a vibrant and creative Jewish communal era in the USA, embodied the most promising pathway for producing a successful chapter in modern Jewish history. It would require great theological adjustments, serious communal reorganizations, and major religious commitments. It was an evolution that many young leaders, in most movements, found irresistibly convincing, particularly during the 1930s to the 1960s. That was my generation of young rabbis, academicians and communal professionals.

* * * * *

THE HURVAH SYNAGOGUE, 1970

Our nuclear family spent the summer of 1970 in Jerusalem, as a sabbatical-substitute gift from Temple Emunah. We did a lot of touring and deepening of family connections. Most of my family connections were through two people – my father’s side revolved around my aunt Rachel Rosenblum Bleicher of Tel Aviv, my father’s sister, and Mordecai Rosenthal in Jerusalem, my mother’s nephew.

One fine day, Mordecai took us on a tour of the Mount of Olives Jewish cemetery to see the graves of his grandmother and grandfather (also mine), who had died in the 1940s (of natural causes). The gravestones had been recently repaired by the family, after the 1967 six-day war, and he proudly told me that their location was very close to the grave of the legendary first Chief Rabbi of Palestine, Rabbi Avraham Isaac Kook. Naturally, I took photos of the graves. Years later, I also took photos of his father and mother’s graves, but by that time, Mordecai was suffering from Alzheimer’s, and I had an official guide from the Hevrah Kadisha (the burial society) show me around.

Mordecai then took me into the Old City, and showed me the ruins of the Hurvah synagogue, which had been the largest synagogue in the Jewish section of the Old City. There were only some random peripheral buildings still standing from the destructive days of the Jordanian occupation, with a large arch spanning the area to symbolize the grand dome that covered the synagogue for hundreds of years. Most eloquently, he pointed to one of the surviving buildings in the compound, and told us that that was where our grandfather’s variety store was located. Needless to say, I took a photo of the site with him pointing it out. My grandparents lived near this synagogue until they moved into the new neighborhood of Shaarey Hessed, of which they were among the initial incorporators.

Mordecai at that time was an administrative employee of the Hebrew University in Givat Ram, and the only member of his family that did not wear the Haredi (pietistic) uniform of black hat, white shirt and black suit. His oldest brother, Avraham David Rosenthal, was the long-term rabbi of Shaarey Hessed. His youngest brother, Shaya (and Ahuva) was a yeshiva administrator, first in Alon Shvut and then in Maalei Adumim, and we became friendly in later years. Two other brothers, Yitzhak and Moshe, had very little contact with me, and a sister, whom I never met, was housed her entire life in a home for the blind. The only ones I still have contact with (2017) are Shlomo (Shaya and Ahuva’s son) and Meira Rosenthal, who live in Petah Tikva (or thereabouts). He is modern Orthodox, and works as an insurance agent. Nice people.

* * * * *

AUNT BREINE’S CHOLENT 1958

When Sheila and I headed off for Jerusalem in October 1958 for the academic year, one of the things I was looking forward to was meeting for the first time my Tante Breine Rosenthal, my mother’s sister. I somehow identified her with the best features of my beloved mother, even though they hadn’t seen each other in 40 years. One of the expectations I had was the aroma and taste of my mother’s cholent – after all, if my mother’ s cholent was the ambrosia of the Gods, (as Heinrich Heine described it), then her older sister’s version must be at least its equal, if not even more heavenly.

It should be understood – I was addicted to cholent. Every Shabbat of my Rosenblum household years, I couldn’t wait for the end of Musaf on Shabbat, so that I could leave my friends at the synagogue, and dash over to 205 East Broadway, a block away, skip up to the second floor, and wait impatiently for the sumptuous culinary wonders that awaited me – my father’s eggs and fried onions (the appetizer) and my mother’s cholent (the main event), which had been simmering since Friday afternoon. Once served, we gorged it down, sang a few Sabbath songs and blessings, and each of us headed for the nearest bed for a satiated Shabbat nap.

And so, as we settled into our Jerusalem apartment, I waited (impatiently) for our first invitation to Tante Breine’s Shabbat cholent. Sheila was rather amused at this prospect, because her family did not play the cholent game on Shabbatot. When we did get the Shabbat invite from Breine, I hastened to agree. We arrived on Shabbat after Musaf, and she ceremoniously served us the puniest and most unimpressive cholent dish, which looked like an opened can of Heinz vegetarian baked beans. Where was my mother’s big cholent pot, where were the slow-cooked potatoes, lima beans, marrow bones? And, above all, where was the heavenly aroma? Sheila watched my illusions disappearing, and smiled politely while we quickly disposed of this impostored semblance of a cholent.

I was able to report to my mother in my next airletter that her cholent remained number one on my rankings of Jerusalem Shabbat cholents. We did, however, introduce our apartment-mates, Ray and Roz Arzt, to the heavenly art of producing and consuming Shabbat cholent on a regular basis, and they became (almost) as addicted to it as I was. Sheila remained rather amused at the whole idea, and summarized her attitude by saying that every man should have something that only his mother can deliver. As for me, just writing about it makes me salivate.

* * * * *

LIBRARIES

Libraries played a serious role in my life experiences. It probably all started with my local public library, on East Broadway. It was across the street from my house, and was a major cultural center for the neighborhood. It catered to the needs of the local (largely Jewish) community, and contained a sizeable collection of Hebrew and Yiddish volumes. I found it more convenient to do my homework there, rather than at home, where privacy was not really available. Especially when it rained, and basketball at the adjoining playground (Seward/Hester park) was not feasible.

The librarians were friendly and helpful. I was guided by them to age-sensitive collections, so I was early-on familiar with James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Allan Poe, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Dumas, Zane Grey, etc. By the time I entered eighth grade at the Jacob Joseph School around the corner, I had also read all the Shakespearean comedies and tragedies. Interesting story in that connection – my eighth grade general studies teacher – Mr Louis Sternfeld, a terrific teacher – was the assistant principal, and had a built-in standoff relationship with me, since I was the class president. One day in class he says to me – Rosenblum! What are you reading under the desk? Shakespeare, I responded. Don’t fool with me, he said, I’m coming over to look. He did, and sure enough, it was a Shakesperean play. He was utterly dumbfounded, as was the rest of the class. My public image thenceforth took a turn for the better.

During my High School and College years, I spent a lot of time on the subway, commuting uptown to Washington Heights (YU). It didn’t stop my periodic visits to the local library, but I did discover a new study environment, a block further down off East Broadway, on Montgomery street – The Polisher Shtiebel – a local Haredi (pietistic) synagogue that had a large, well-stocked collection of Jewish traditional texts and study tables (it had been a former home of the nascent YU). I found this to be an increasingly usable locale to do my religious text homework, and would spend evenings there two or three times a week. The few old men who habituated the facility came to know me, since no other youngsters ever showed up there. They seemed to regard me as the model for Bialik’s wonderful poem Hamatmid (the young dedicated scholar), and I certainly played the role quite effectively.

When I moved out of the neighborhood to attend the Jewish Theological Seminary, I did have my own dorm room, and built my private text collection, but still managed to spend a considerable amount of time at the JTS library, one of the largest Jewish collections in the world, a gold mine for a bookish person like me. A friend of my father’s, Isaac Rivkind, was the Judaica Library specialist, and took a personal interest in my literary interests. When Sheila and I moved to Boston, I developed strong interests in the Brandeis, Boston Public and Harvard libraries. During my Hebrew College years, I frequently gravitated to the HC library, which was very user-friendly (Moshe Tuchman and Helen Sarna were the administrators). I also made several research trips to Cincinnati to check out the Hebrew Union College library collections related to my PhD thesis.

During my Philadelphia years, I have developed strong connections with Gratz College library, Penn library, and lately, the Philadelphia public library. One of the delightful features of the Free Library of Philadelphia is its participation in an inter-library-loan partnership, which will seek out any book of your desire, anywhere in the country, and make it available for pickup at your local branch, which happens to be housed in my own condominium building. What a treat! As a result, I have had access to books I never would have been able to put my hands on.

One classic example (for me) – an Israeli scholar (Natan Efrati) published his doctoral thesis (in Hebrew) in 1989 on the American assistance to Palestinian Jewry in WWI. Penn didn’t have it, Gratz didn’t have